For My Son
by LesMisLoony
Summary: In which Marius has a pouty younger brother about whom the Gillenormands knew nothing. Final chapter: Georges is dead and Marcel leaves home, presumably to take up his place in the world. It probably won't take a genius to understand what that place is.
1. Marcel: The Garden

His father was daydreaming again.

Marcel had been sitting at the edge of the low brick wall, watching the river rush past his dangling bare feet, when he slowly became aware that his father was no longer hacking at the bare earth of the winter garden. He twisted around and saw him leaning against the hoe, staring at the ground. His wild hair caught the sun in a strange way, casting his weathered face into shadow that contrasted sharply with his shaggy white mane. Marcel watched his father's unmoving hands, stained brown with sun and dirt, clenched about the slender wooden handle of the hoe. The knees of his gray trousers were the same shade of brown. From his darkened face, Marcel saw the gleam of his father's melancholy eyes, focused, as always, on the unobtainable past. He seemed to sense his son's gaze and blinked once, the glistening points flickering out for the briefest of moments and then fixated again in the same place.

"Your mother didn't live long enough to name you," he said softly. Marcel loved the quiet tone of his father's low voice. He knew that the man had once been a soldier, but he could not imagine that dear old face contorted into a battle cry. The loudest sound he had ever heard from that crinkled throat was a sob. The father continued. "She left it up to me. All of it. I couldn't think of a thing. She named your brother. She just held him in her arms once, a red little squalling thing, and immediately she knew what to call him. And I stood there holding you, crying just as your brother had done, hoping that she would wake up and tell me what to call you. And then Nanette was pulling me out of the room and that was the end of it. I never saw your mother again. And her father came for your brother only a few weeks later."

Marcel did not want to hear the story of his missing brother again. He dropped down off the low wall and ducked behind it, crouching in the mud only a few feet from the mighty river.

A moment later his father's tragic face appeared above him, throwing Marcel's own eyes into shadow and blocking the dull winter sun. The father reached down and lifted the boy back into the little garden, holding him firmly with his strong arms. That these same arms once supported fellow soldiers on the battlefield, Marcel could not comprehend. He laid his head on his father's broad shoulder.

"I do the best I can, son," he sighed. Marcel closed his eyes and felt himself rising and falling with his father's chest. If he moved his head just so, he could hear the faint throb of the man's heart. He put a small hand against the leathery face and found the familiar ridge of the old battle scar, a prodigious sabre cut, absently tracing it from the large forehead to the hollow cheek. "But sometimes I worry that I think so much on your poor mother and on Marius that I forget you."

Marcel was certain that this was true.


	2. Georges: Romance

**1808**

Georges peered eagerly out the window as the train puffed and clattered into the crowded station. Her face was somewhere in that crowd, waiting for him. He felt his heart knocking against his chest; he began absently fingering a fresh sabre-cut on his wrist as he stepped down off of the train.

He hardly felt the platform beneath his feet as he continued eagerly scanning the crowd, desperate for just a glimpse of his bride. When at last she appeared before him, moving carefully through a crowd of English tourists, her blushing face was even more beautiful than he had remembered it while he was away.

Lucille seemed breathless. Locks of ebony hair had escaped her bonnet and fell perfectly around her porcelain face. Her blue eyes fixed on him, glittering with joy, as the color rose in her cheeks. She held a dainty white parasol in one hand and a fistful of her olive skirts in the other. Her chest rose and fell charmingly beneath her fragile collarbone.

Georges and Lucille Pontmercy faced each other, words lost in the exhilaration of the moment. At last she took his big hand in her delicate one and pressed it to her heart.

"Welcome home," she smiled.

* * *

His leave was only for a week, and Lucille was determined that they should dine with her father on his last night in Paris before returning to the Army. Despite this ominous encounter looming in the near future, the young couple spent a glorious few days in each others' company. On the rare occasion that they left the house, Georges and Lucille walked together through the public gardens, arm in arm, while the little wife pointed excitedly at the flowers clustered along the edges of the paths. "How can I look at these petty blooms," Georges would often ask, "when I have the most beautiful flower of all wrapped about my arm?" at which Lucille would press closer to him with a blissful little sigh.

Georges and Lucille had met on his last leave to Paris, granted that Georges could attend his mother's funeral. She had found him in a similar garden, his head bowed and tears in his eyes, and, with the innocence of a sheltered youth, comforted the handsome stranger. Their romance had been a whirlwind of infatuation, perhaps only due to Georges's sensitive state, but both had seen fit to marry secretly the day before he was to leave. This was their first meeting since, and none of the passion had faded in his absence.

The problem remained, though, that Lucille's father did not know that his daughter had even been courted, much less married. He believed that she was spending this week with her cousin, also recently a bride, and, in fact, expecting. In truth, Lucille had not spoken to this cousin in over a year, but neither had anyone else in her family. It was an excellent cover.

"My father," Lucille had told Georges, "is very political. I think you'll get along well." Both knew that she was trying to hide her nervousness. The father did not know that she had been married, and neither did he know that the couple was coming for a visit.

Perhaps the sudden marriage had been little more than an act of defiance toward a father that had stifled her in her youth. Lucille repeated to her husband that she was happy, and her father would certainly be able to see this. Were the stiff rules of etiquette by which he lived more important that his child's happiness?

The answer, the young Pontmercys learned, was yes.

* * *

**1809**

_My dearest Georges,_

_The baby is doing well. I am housing a little girl from the factory to take care of me until you come home. She is a good girl. She is called Nanette. Please try to come home. The salary you send is plenty for us, but I'd rather have you here than the money. Monsieur my father does not know about our Marius. I shan't tell him. We will make do without his inheritance. We won't need it. I have you._

_With love,_

_Lucille_


	3. Nanette: At the Door

**1827**

Nanette snuffled, wiping her callused hands over her face, and patted Marcel's shoulder comfortingly. "I'll get the door," she whispered huskily, tears clogging her throat. Her stiff woolen skirt rustled across the floor as she left the little room.

Clenching and unclenching his teeth, Marcel scowled first at the doctor, then at the curé, and finally at the large hand of his dead father hanging limply from Marcel's own fist. The dim room glowed softly orange in the flickering light from the single candle on the mantle, tossing around enormous shadows of the two adults who spoke in hushed enough tones that Marcel could hear the voice of a young man at the door.

"Monsieur Pontmercy?" the voice inquired. "Is this the place?"

Marcel gave his father's hand a final clasp before laying it on his unmoving chest and softly retreating from the front room. He glanced into the tiny hall where Nanette stood, the small lamp in her hand revealing a young man with dark hair and familiar features.

"Can I speak with him?" the stranger asked.

Nanette shook her head.

"But I am his son! He is expecting me!"

Realizing that he beheld his errant brother, the fabled Marius, Marcel slipped hastily out of the house and into the little overgrown garden.

Nanette gazed levelly at the flustered young man who stood before her. "He isn't expecting you anymore."

* * *

**1812**

"She don't live here no more," Nanette repeated, hoping her blank face concealed her terror.

The large man in the doorway furrowed his heavy brow, clenching his pudgy fists as he turned the phrase over in his mind. At last he spoke. "I'll just tell M'sieur Gillenormand then, eh?"

Relieved, Nanette could barely hold back a smile. "Yeah, I guess that's about right."

She stood in the doorway and watched the man return to the waiting carriage and, in a motion far more graceful than she expected from one of such size, vault carelessly into the driver's place and gather the reins in his hands. He did not look back at her as he whipped up the horses, firmly signifying his master's disdain for her household.

Nanette closed the door, latching it tightly, and turned to her mistress. Lucille was beaming.

"That was it, exactly, Nanette! That should throw off Monsieur my father for a little while. At least until Georges returns."

"Yeah, but Miss," Nanette frowned, "that man wasn't so shrewd. He may confuse the message, or your papa might come back here himself and ask for you, and I ain't—"

"'_I'm not_,' Nanette, I've told you before," interrupted Lucille.

"Fine, and _I'm not_ going to convince your pa that a kid like me lives here by myself."

Lucille opened her mouth to answer, but realized at once that the girl was right. She needed a plan.

At this precise moment, Marius toddled into the room. He stumbled across the floor toward his mother, dirt streaked over his round cheeks and tiny hands, and seized a handful of her skirts, pulling at them and raising his arms so that she might hold him.

Lucille lifted the boy, and he wrapped his legs around her waist and stuck his dirty thumb into his mouth, twisting one of his dark curls with the index finger of his other hand. "What shall we tell your grandfather, then, my darling?" she sighed.

Nanette inhaled sharply. "What if I was still here for M'sieur's sake? Keeping up the house for him and such while he was gone. And keeping up the baby."

"And where am I?" asked Lucille, arching a dark brow.

Nanette was reluctant to answer, but Lucille suddenly understood.

"He can't keep looking for me if he doesn't know that I live!" she declared proudly. "So tell him—"

Marius coughed, the choking, abrupt little sound only a child can make.

Lucille grinned mischievously. "Tell Monsieur my father that I died in childbirth. And Marius is the proof."


	4. Charlotte: The Little Room

**1808**

Lucille knocked softly and edged into the room without waiting for a response, tugging her modest rose-colored skirts through the crack of the door and quickly pushing it closed. She turned her back to the hall and leaned against the door, blue eyes hastily taking stock of the surroundings.

It was a simple little room on the lower level of her house—her father's house now, for Georges's little cottage had become her home—with a rosy fire, an inexpensive rug, and a narrow bed tucked into the far corner. A portly older woman sat in a wooden chair with her back to the fireplace, knitting needles chattering and a blanket dripping from her fingers. She and a lady seated primly on the bed had clearly been in conversation a moment before Lucille had entered; now both watched her.

"Charlotte," the girl said breathlessly, "I need your help."

The woman at the fire dropped her knitting and held her plump arms out toward Lucille. "My darling, come kiss old Auntie Charlotte before you enlist me in whatever scheme you've brought along." She gestured to the stiff, gray-clad lady on the bed. "Your sister and I were just wondering when you'd come home to us. And how is your dear cousin? And the baby—what is he called?"

"Théodule," the older sister interjected. "Dear little Théodule."

Lucille nodded briskly to both, obediently crossing the room and letting the old nursemaid kiss both her flushed cheeks. "I have something to tell you, Charlotte," she insisted. "You have to help me."

"I'll always help you out, my dove. I've become an expert at it over the years, now haven't I? What have you done this time?" the old woman smiled benignly at the distracted girl.

"Charlotte, I—do you remember when I told you about the handsome young soldier I met at the gardens?"

The older sister flinched and leaned forward. "A soldier, Lucille?"

"Yes. A soldier." She turned back to the nursemaid. "Do you—"

"A soldier for whom?"

Lucille swatted impatiently at her.

"For Buonaparte, Berthe, darling," the old woman said. "Now, Lucille, kitten, do continue."

The girl, however, hesitated. The question of how to present the news of her secret marriage to her father had troubled her for so long that she hadn't considered what words to use to gently explain herself to her dear old nursemaid. Her lips moved slightly as she concentrated, forming various cautious sentences in her mind.

"I married him," she declared at last.

Charlotte pursed her crinkled lips and Berthe cried out, threatening to swoon. The elder sister fanned herself vigorously with her hands, finally getting to her feet and dashing out of the room, a gray linen blur.

Lucille ignored her and stepped closer to the old nursemaid, who was tapping the end of one knitting needle against her front teeth as she thought. This familiar absentminded tendency brought back a rush of images of childhood, and Lucille remembered all the times she had come to Charlotte with a stain on a new dress, a wriggling stray animal in her arms, or a scraped knee from falling out of a tree in the garden. The good woman had always thought of a way to remove the stain, hide the new pet, or clean the wound so that Lucille's father would not be angry with her. This plain little room had been the hub of her lighthearted youth; it was understandable that she would return for answers to the first crisis of adult life.

When Charlotte finally returned the knitting needle to her lap, she faced Lucille. The young lady was startled to see that each of the nursemaid's sixty-some years was suddenly visible on her face: for the first time, Charlotte seemed old and tired. She shook her head, slowly. "I don't know what to do, pet. There's no good way to tell this to your father. Even if it were a young gentleman he wouldn't approve, but a soldier! You saw how Berthe reacted. You're an adult now, kitten. A woman. Madame—Pontmercy, isn't it? You must learn to stand up for yourself. You know your father as well as I. How to tell him is your decision. It's your responsibility."

* * *

**1812**

Charlotte stared dumbly at Nicolette, her gaping mouth unchecked. "He said _what_?"

The other woman nodded gravely. "She died in childbirth." Her eyes were carefully conveying sympathy, but Charlotte found the display disgusting. This was not the same Nicolette who had cooked for little Lucille all those years, or covered for the girl those times Charlotte had ushered her through the kitchen and up to her room, volunteered herbs or stinking poultices to treat black eyes from fistfights at the park, always keeping an eye out for Monsieur. This Nicolette was a melancholy thing from the countryside whose real name was Jeanne, though Monsieur had taken to calling her by the same name as that last cook, who had married a landlord from somewhere across town and gone away. This Nicolette had never seen more of Lucille than the portrait in the drawing room that, although always facedown on the mantle, never seemed to gather dust.

"But when?" Charlotte asked desperately. "Does the child survive? Why didn't that scoundrel of a husband have the decency to tell us anything?"

Nicolette shrugged. "All I know is what Poitevin told me. He went to the house the first time and a little girl answered and said that she didn't live there anymore. You remember that. And today he went back to get the forwarding address—your idea, Miss—and the same little girl said she died bringing the baby; she called and a little boy, only a couple of years old, came over and let her pick him up. The girl said she's keeping him while the father is at war."

"What did he look like? What's he called? Is he happy there, with this little girl?"

Nicolette shrugged again. "I suppose someone should tell Monsieur Gillenormand."

"No," said Charlotte, getting to her feet. "First, I want to see all this for myself. If my little Lucille has a son, I want to make sure he's being taken care of. If his father won't even come home long enough to watch over him, I'm not so sure he deserves to have him."

"And won't Monsieur be angry to know that we were trying to contact her? He doesn't even want to hear talk of her. How will we let him know all of this?"

"Leave it to me." The old nursemaid went to her chest of drawers and drew out a heavy shawl and sturdy pair of gloves. "But right now I'm going to see about this grandson."


	5. Marcel: Sickness

**1827**

Marcel had recently noticed that his father sat strangely, keeping his knees bent, and had begun to walk with his back arched and a slow, shuffling step. He rarely turned his head, but rather slowly moved his entire torso when addressed. Yesterday Georges had slipped Marcel a sou and a wink after asking him to weed and water his neglected garden, unable to stoop and tend the plants himself.

Last night, Marcel awoke to hear the shuffling of his father's footsteps in the hallway. He quickly lit a candle and went to intercept Georges, who squinted at the dim, fluttering light and moved back into the darkness. His white hair was matted with sweat, lying over his brow, but the old man was trembling. Georges stared glassily at his son for a moment, then knocked the candle out of his hand and pushed him aside, returning to his own room as quickly as his stiff joints would allow. In the morning, Marcel found vomit on the blue rosebush nearest the door.

And now Georges would not get out of bed, having drawn the curtains and extinguished the lamps. Afraid to face his father after the irritability he had encountered the night before, Marcel allowed Nanette to bustle back and forth with cool water, blankets, and rags to clean the mess. At last the haggard woman had sent him for the doctor, who had in turn sent him for the curé. Both men and Nanette were in the room when Georges began to rave.

Marcel warily entered the bedroom.

His father was lying with his head propped up on a pillow, his hair turned in all directions like white leaves on a rosebush, his heavy brow casting a shadow over his lifeless, dull eyes. His cheeks sagged from their noble frame and his mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Nanette, under the doctor's orders, had covered him with several heavy quilts but was forced to remain at his side to replace them each time Georges threw them to the floor. When Marcel came into the room, he caught Nanette's eye and read hopeless desperation on her features. He understood that the mind of the gentle, withdrawn man who had raised him was overthrown.

"My son!"

The cry was sudden, startling all of the occupants of the cramped room. Pleased that Georges had recognized him, Marcel pressed forward, brushing against the kneeling curé as he approached the bedside. His father's thin hands rose from the quilts like spirits from the grave, hovering unsteadily in the air, trembling to punctuate each word.

"Bring me my son! Fetch my son!"

Marcel bent over the bed and whispered reassuringly, "What is it, Father?" He raised one hand to cover the fevered brow.

In a lightning move, the old man seized Marcel's wrist and pulled it down, bringing the young man's face close to his own. "My son," he panted again. "Find my son."

A lump of panic formed in Marcel's throat. He spoke knowing what would come next, knowing that his deep fear would be solidified by his father's next delusional words.

"I am here, Father." The phrase came out hardly more than a rasp.

The old man's sunken eyes fixed on Marcel's pale face for a long moment. Then, he released the boy's wrist and turned away in disgust. "Fetch him," he cried again. "Fetch my Marius!"

Marcel backed out of the room.

The next time he faced his fevered father, Georges was dead.


	6. Charlotte: Old Dresses

_Cheers, frustratedstudent! Thanks for sticking with me._

**1813**

Charlotte wrinkled her nose as the carriage slowed before a tiny, though well kept, cottage. It had been almost a year since she had first heard that little Lucille had died in childbirth. She had attempted to retrieve the grandson that day, but Poitevin could not be found and Nicolette-Jeanne (who, it turned out, had been sleeping with Monsieur) had rushed to fetch Monsieur Gillenormand and tell him that Charlotte intended to visit his daughter and "the blood-drinker," forgetting to mention that the daughter was dead. Charlotte had been furious, for she had long known that her position in the household had become unnecessary since both the girls were adults now—and one had been disowned. Monsieur Gillenormand, at best, gave Charlotte no thought, and she, in turn, provided a mother figure for the girls, whose own mothers had died long ago.

But, upon hearing the Charlotte was on her way to meet with the daughter he no longer had, Monsieur Gillenormand had flown into a rage and threatened to throw her out of the house. He hadn't done it, of course, for dear Berthe was very fond of her old nursemaid and, for what may have been the only time in her life, stood up to her father and proclaimed—albeit in a very small voice—that if Charlotte left, Berthe would follow. Of course there was no hint of truth in the words, for Berthe was a spineless, though well meaning, creature, but it was enough to worry Monsieur Gillenormand, who was no longer young. The thought of losing both daughters—! So he had let Charlotte stay on under a much stricter watch, and the rat Nicolette-Jeanne accompanied the old nursemaid each time she left the grounds.

Finally, after many months of near house arrest, the bullying that Nicolette-Jeanne was receiving from the other servants drove her to leave her position, and another girl called Olympie took her place. In all of that time, Monsieur Gillenormand had all but forgotten Charlotte's intention to visit the "brigand of the Loire," but, just to be sure, Charlotte waited another full month before having Poitevin drive her there. Monsieur believed that she had taken a few days off for the holidays to visit her family—and it was almost true.

So here she was at last, ready to meet the little boy who had haunted her thoughts and imagination for so long, her mind working frantically to think of a way to bring him back to the Rue Servandoni without Monsieur going into one of his tempers and throwing her out.

Charlotte heaved herself out of the carriage, noting with chagrin that the vehicle sprang up behind her, free of her weight. She drew her cape around her arms and shivered. It was a little less than a week till Christmas. Such a present to bring Monsieur Gillenormand—a grandson!

The house was small and almost square, a muddy shade of yellow, with a plain wooden door. The only thing to set it apart from the other houses nearby, identical in shape and color, was a little branch from a holly tree attached to the door with a nail. This was the hovel where little Lucille had lived until her death. Charlotte shivered again.

As she neared the house, she realized that the pinkish curtains in the window were identical to the high-waisted rose-colored dress Lucille had been wearing five years ago, the last time Charlotte had seen her. She curled her crinkled lip in disgust. His wife only dead for a little over a year, and already the brigand tore up her things?

Charlotte's indignation had given her the courage to stride forward, pound on the door, and sweep this little boy up into her arms, but at that moment she heard him laugh.

Behind the little cottage was a tiny, square enclosure full of bushes dead for winter, and through their delicate brown bones a flash of pink could be seen. Charlotte moved quietly over to the low wall and watched as the child, Lucille's baby, wandered freely between the dead bushes, gathering fragile sticks in his fist and waving them over his head, perhaps challenging faraway birds to a duel. He was a beautiful round-cheeked angel, the kind Charlotte saw carved into the stone of the chapel.

And Charlotte recognized the soft blue fabric of his obviously handmade skeleton suit—a strange-looking garment developed for children within the last few years that was characterized by pants whose waist came nearly to the armpits. Another of Lucille's fine dresses had been cut and remade into a white shirt (probably once a chemise or petticoat) and then handsome high-waisted blue pants, done up on both sides with long rows of buttons that had clearly come from several different sources. Charlotte realized that, unless the brigand was far better with a needle than anyone would have expected, the brash recycling of sweet Lucille's dresses must have been the handiwork of the little girl housekeeper Poitevin had mentioned.

Though the temptation was strong to scoop the chubby-cheeked little boy into her arms and return to the waiting carriage for the long ride back to the Rue Servandoni, Charlotte forced herself to turn back to the door of the cottage. At least the little maid girl should know what was to become of her charge.

So Charlotte raised her fist and rapped loudly on the simple door, jarring the holly branch and knocking it askew. Footsteps brushed toward her from inside the house, and Charlotte straightened her bonnet and her back in order to look more imposing.

A bareheaded young girl opened the door, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, dressed in a chemise and a petticoat that was rolled and pinned at the waist in order to keep the fine hem from dragging the floor. Another of Lucille's things—Charlotte herself had done the needlework around the bottom. The old woman scowled.

"Can I help you, Madame?" The girl spoke with a voice that seemed more comfortable in street slang than this polite greeting. Her dark eyes slid over Charlotte's shoulder and widened, probably recognizing Poitevin and the carriage. "Are you from Madame's people? I told you she ain't here."

Suddenly angry, Charlotte pushed the girl aside and swept into the little cottage, aware that her own modest servants' clothes seemed grand in such surroundings. As she entered the house, Charlotte looked around to find the door leading into the garden where the little grandson was playing. She decided that, once she had the boy in her arms, she would decide what to say to this serving girl. But as she stormed though a little kitchen and out into the garden, Charlotte almost bumped into Lucille.

The old nursemaid stepped back, her mouth slowly dropping open, then reached with both hands for the lovely little vision before her.

It was Lucille, of course, alive and very pregnant. Her dear little girl had her dark hair in a long braid secured by a bodkin and her old olive dress, though the frock now sported a long cut up the front of the skirt to the waistline, showing a long triangle of petticoat and allowing room for her round, full belly. Gasping at the unimaginable and unexpected vision before her, Charlotte was speechless.

Lucille, on the other hand, was delighted. She shrieked and threw her arms around the old nursemaid, embracing her somewhat clumsily over her pregnant stomach. After a long, breathless moment, Charlotte came to life and clutched the girl to her bosom. "Lucille, oh my darling!" she cried. "Here you are, look at you! Oh, heart!"

Then Lucille let go and called, "Georges, come here! Come here, love!" and kissed her nursemaid's trembling cheeks.

Charlotte heard the sound of heavy feet approaching from the other side of the cottage, but she could not take her old eyes off of the radiant young woman in her arms, beautiful and _alive_! A throat cleared behind her, and at last Charlotte turned to meet Georges Pontmercy.

He was an imposing, tall man whose broad shoulders seemed to fill an entire corner of the room. He was dignified and austere, with a large, strong forehead nearly shading twinkling eyes. A fine shape was obvious even through the outdated suit he wore. He nodded to Charlotte—bashfully?—and smiled a tiny smile.

And Charlotte was relieved to notice that Georges was the one person in the house who was not wearing one of Lucille's dresses.


	7. Georges: Death

A/N- I live! And I haven't abandoned this one. I give it one more chapter. Probably. This one is short, but no one's reading, so who's complaining?

* * *

**1813**

Georges buried his face in his hands as another of Lucille's screams pierced the oppressive heat of noon. Things had been worse before Nanette had taken Marius to the park, though if this wasn't over by the time they returned Georges was sure he would go mad. He had been at war when his dear little wife had borne Marius, but this new child (who was to be called Charlotte) must be ripping his poor love apart. He wanted to leave the little hallway as much as he wanted to stay and support his Lucille.

The door at his back flew open, and Charlotte's haggard face appeared amidst a mane of flyaway gray hair. "More water, Colonel, dear," she panted, sweat gathering along the crinkles of her forehead. "She's just like her mother, poor thing; this isn't going well."

Georges obeyed mindlessly, rushing to the garden and seizing one of the old buckets they had filled beforehand, mindful not to let any of the water slosh over the edges in his haste. The old nursemaid's comment was the only thing on his mind: _She's just like her mother._ Hadn't Lucille's mother died giving birth to her? Wasn't that the case? Georges's lungs felt stiff, and he had to force air in to keep breathing. Lucille would be fine, he assured himself. She had done this once before with only little Nanette to help, years ago, and everything had gone well. The nursemaid would take care of things.

Charlotte met him at the door of the front room and took the bucket from his hands, slopping some of the water over onto his dusty shoes. "Can't I—?"

"No," she said irritably. "It isn't seemly. You'll stay here."

"But—"

The door closed as Lucille shrieked again. Georges felt tears gathering in his eyes, and he rested his hot forehead against the rough, cool wood of the door that stood between them.

This baby was going to kill her.


	8. Marcel: Wolves and a Flood

A/N- Well, how was that for a hiatus? Okay, technically I wrote this chapter about the time I wrote the first chapte of this fic, so I'm not really making a comeback or anything. Mjulinir reviewed the previous chapter and I suddenly remembered that this dusty lil thing was still lurking in the deep shadows of my computer, so I brought it out, shined it up, and here it is! Yay.

* * *

**1827**

Marcel glowered at the desecrated blue rose bush. Was it significant that his father had spent most of his life—as far as Marcel remembered—cultivating this spectacular flower, only to vomit on it shortly before his death? He pressed his trembling lips together and turned away.

Peering through the little kitchen and into his home, he could see the back of Marius Gillenormand's head as he stood in the doorway of the room where Georges lay. Wonderful darling Marius had the same dark hair as Marcel, though his had a lot of curl that Marcel's did not. He was nicely dressed, the bourgeois. No surprise there.

Inside the house, Nanette brushed past Monsieur the Bourgeois and spotted Marcel in the garden. She started toward him, but he turned away.

And as his eyes left the little garden and focused elsewhere, Marcel saw two dark figures standing motionless in the road. One was heavyset and large, but the smaller man was very familiar, a spectre raised from the random memories of his childhood.

Marcel stared in shock.

What was _he_ doing here?

* * *

**1819**

The morning had been cloudy when his father had left him here, with soft groans of thunder murmuring in the grey distance, but now heavy rain splattered from the eaves of the chapel, leaving hardly a hand's width of dry space in front of the door. His father had asked him to come inside if it began to rain, but Marcel had no desire to cause a commotion by entering mass late, his clothes and hair soaked, and dripping over to join his father, who was doing nothing but staring at stupid Marius.

So Marcel sat on the wet stoop, clenching his lips to keep his teeth from chattering and alternating between lifting his numb, bare feet from the soaked ground to crouching in hopes of allowing his cold seat a chance to regain feeling. His hat had only protected him for the briefest of moments before becoming saturated with water and dripping onto his face, so he had taken it off, wrung it out, and sat on it for a while. Nothing seemed to help. Now his dark hair was plastered to his cheeks, forehead, and neck, all of the waves and curl flattened. He lifted his arms and saw his flesh through the drenched white fabric of his chemise. Only his course woolen pants did not cling to his damp skin.

He had not noticed a young man staring at him from the window of a nearby café. The stranger, although sipping languorously from a cup of coffee, had the physical appearance of someone near death by starvation. He wore handsome clothes, yet his flesh was stretched tightly across the narrow frame of his face like fabric on the wooden skeleton of a kite. His eyes were hollow but conveyed contentment. He stood, revealing a frail looking body clothed in several layers of fine fabrics, and went to the doorway of the little café.

"Hey, boy!"

Marcel looked uneasily at the thin stranger.

"Come over here, get out of the rain!" When Marcel didn't answer, he went back into the café and returned a moment later with a large, black umbrella. The stranger crossed the deserted street in long strides and crouched before the boy. Marcel sat completely still, even holding his breath.

The stranger stared at him with small, icy blue eyes, then smiled, showing a row of unnaturally perfect teeth. He put one long hand into his coat pocket and withdrew a coin, holding it daintily between two tapered fingers, every motion that of a showman. "I can buy you a little food, my boy. I just hate to see anyone alone in the rain." He spoke slowly, as if considering every word before pronouncing it. Sensing Marcel's weakening resolve, he continued, "I'm not out to kidnap you or poison you or the like. I just want to see you dry. How does a cup of chocolate sound?"

Still wary, but considering just how cold and unhappy he was, Marcel slowly nodded. The man smiled again, an unsettlingly unnatural movement, and moved the umbrella to cover both of them. Marcel could not help but sigh in relief, feeling immediately lighter and free of constant prickling of the rain that now rustled helplessly around the two figures beneath the black umbrella.

The interior of the café was not especially warm, though a fire hissed and popped to itself on the hearth. The stranger passed Marcel an inexpensive cotton handkerchief and bade him dry himself as best he could. The pair returned to the little table by the window, where Marcel anxiously watched the doors of the chapel. He was not afraid of his father worrying upon leaving mass and finding that Marcel had disappeared into the rain—he was afraid that the father would forget and leave him here.

"Well then," the stranger said, passing Marcel a fresh mug of chocolate, "where are your parents, my boy?"

Without answering, Marcel dropped the damp handkerchief he had been working through his sopping hair and seized the cocoa with both hands, holding it near his chin so that the steam drifted over his numb face and the cup warmed his icy fingers. He sighed, contented, and allowed himself to answer the stranger.

"My papa's at mass over there."

This answer visibly surprised the stranger; he drew back, narrow brows lifted, and stared fixedly at the boy. "And you thought it better to sit outside in this rain than join him?"

Marcel shrugged, took a sip of the cocoa, and shuddered with delight. He had burned his tongue, but the warm drink was delicious.

"Very well then. Your mother?"

"She died," Marcel said into the cocoa. When he exhaled, more of the warmth swept over his face. "Having me killed her." He drained the mug, leaning back in his chair and watching as the last drops rolled into his mouth. His fingers and toes were throbbing back into life now; he noticed that his hands and feet were an intense shade of violet-red. Intending to thank him, Marcel looked back up at his companion.

The thin stranger was glowering out the window at the rain. This expression, this grimace, seemed to come more easily to his features than the forced smile of earlier. Marcel glanced over to the silent facade of the stony chapel. "Thanks plenty, monsieur," he said, setting the empty mug back on the table. The man's attention snapped back toward the boy, and he nodded.

"You've a home, then?" he asked. "You're happy there?"

Marcel shrugged again, allowing the burnt tip of his tongue to creep out between his lips in search of relief.

"Well," sighed the man, "look here, lad. I was prepared to offer you shelter and a position in my business—an apprentice, if you will. You don't need it now, but if you're ever down on your luck, or if your father loses you, leaving you out in the rain like that, just find me. I have a place set up near the Temple, a side business, pulling teeth. I'm using that to bring in a little money until I have my next opportunity set in place. But as for now, I bid you good afternoon, lad. Until we meet again." He got to his feet and started toward the open door of the café, but stopped long enough to drop one more instruction over his shoulder.

"Just ask for Babet."

And the thin young stranger turned, opened the rain-spotted umbrella, and went out into the rain.

* * *

**1827**

Marcel stepped over the low wall of the garden, never taking his eyes off the stranger, who seemed to have gotten smaller and thinner over the years. Still, there was no mistaking that stretched face, razor nose, and showman's smile. "Are you Babet?" he ventured once he had joined the two men.

The stranger's peculiar smile dropped into the comfortable grimace Marcel remembered. "Depends who's asking," and Marcel suddenly realized that he was holding a knife in his bony hand. The bigger man was cradling a crowbar.

Marcel refused to be intimidated. He was here on invitation, however belated the response may be. "I—you told me once, when I was a boy—you offered me a job. Near the Temple. If I wanted to get away from my father."

"So you think you'll run away and take up a life of crime then, is that it? How terribly romantic," Babet said, his voice thick with disdain and sarcasm.

The bigger man laughed and reached out to contemptuously ruffle Marcel's hair, but the boy ducked away, remembering the knife and misinterpreting the gesture. "Don't want me to muss your locks?" he asked, amused. "Are you a little dandy, is that it? _Pompous_," he added in English, "but a child. The child of Kleopompous."

Marcel furrowed his brow at the nonsense. "What?"

"Mythology, boy! Haven't you been educated? Parnassos, the child of Kleopompous. A mayor. Saved them from a flood and wolves or something."

Marcel's befuddled expression did not change.

"Shut up, Brujon, you babbler," Babet said irritably. "The others may think you're clever, but your educated talk is all nonsense." And to Marcel he added, "If you want to come, boy, then follow. Let's go."

The man called Brujon grinned. "Come along, little dandy, little Parnassos. Changing you into a wolf of Pantin won't be easy."

"I'm called Marcel."

"Not anymore," said Brujon. "We can't have people tracking you down. You're leaving the safety of Mount Parnassus now, little dandy," he said, taking hold of the boy's shoulder and guiding him along the path.

Marcel Pontmercy followed the criminals obediently, only turning once to see his little home for the last time.


End file.
